


I Am Not Who I Was (Don't Call Me My Past)

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jim needs a hug, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-06-06 07:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15189740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: Jim hates being called Jimmy. That's not who he is-- not any more. But how the hell was he supposed to explain that without dumping his whole life story in the process?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, long time no see! I know I haven't posted anything since December-- I'm sorry! Life has been a crazy mess and my WIPs have been growing in number. 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to raisinsforsunday for their help editing and fixing this mess!

Jim Kirk had been called his fair share of names in his lifetime: lazy, stupid, son-of-a-bitch. He'd heard it all. He took it in stride, well aware that he was neither lazy nor an idiot. As for the comment about his mother-- well, he'd never personally told her what he thought of her, but if others wanted agree with his opinion by screaming it at him, that was alright in his book. Son of a bitch, indeed.

He didn't mind it when people called him names, not really. He knew full well how infuriating he could be at the best of times; his past plus his mind all equaled up to one stubborn, untrusting, aggravating combo. Take all of the aforementioned and he was also painfully aware of why no one stuck around for too long where he was concerned. He didn't blame them. It was his own fault, really. He hated how screwed up he was. Hell, if he could leave, he’d do it too. Sadly, as no one had yet discovered how to perfect voluntary reincarnation, he was a little out of luck there.

So, obnoxious as he was, he went through much of his adolescence and early adulthood barely hearing his own name. Dude, man, kid, idiot, good for nothing, low life, bastard, son-of-a-bitch, hick, blondie, brat Kirk, asshole… it was all the same. He didn’t care.

Except when people called him Jimmy. He _hated_ being called Jimmy. Only one person had ever called him that, and he was easily one of the most unimaginable bastards Jim had ever had the misfortune to meet.

Frank refused outright to call him Jim, no matter how many times he asked. Eventually, he realized that Frank’s denial of this basic request was just another way to demoralize him-- make him feel inferior and helpless. It was a reminder that he was smaller and weaker, that Frank was in charge and there was nothing he could do about it. It made his skin crawl.

_Get me another beer, Jimmy._

_Wash the car, Jimmy._

_Shut up before I make you shut up, Jimmy._

It was a threat meant only for his ears when the cop brought him home after he sent his dad’s car plummeting off a cliff. “Oh, thank you, officer! I was so worried about you! We’ll be having a talk later, Jimmy.”

It was a false endearment, spoken even as Frank had pulled his belt through the loops at his waist and wrapped it around his fist and brought it down on Jim’s back again and again. "I hate doing this to you, Jimmy, but you just don’t learn."

Oh, he learned.

He learned that he hated being pushed around.

He learned that he hated Frank.

He learned that he hated _Jimmy._

He got the opportunity to erase himself on Tarsus and he took it, latched onto it like a limpet and vowed that things would be different. He would be different. So he decided that he wasn’t going to be Jimmy anymore. But if anyone in their right mind thought he was going to go by Tiberius, they had another thing coming. So he settled on J.T.-- and people _loved_ J.T.. J.T. was smart, and kind and driven; for the first time in his life, he felt special. J.T. was everything that Jimmy wasn’t.

Smart enough that the governor himself took notice, and told him such a name didn’t suit him.

Driven enough that the governor wanted to offer him special guidance and opportunities, to “give you the very best, James”.

Not special enough to keep him off the list.

Not smart enough to keep his kids alive.

Not enough.

J.T. fell away the second he returned to earth.

James made his skin crawl.

The first time his mom saw him, she had sighed softly and said, “Oh, Jimmy…”

And he had spat back, “It’s Jim.”

Then he hadn’t spoken for three weeks.

Not James.

Not J.T.

Not Jimmy.

Never again.

* * *

 

"Cadet Marks,” the instructor announced glancing at the PADD in his hand, “presenting dissertation for evaluation for early graduation from the Security & Strategic Intelligence program. You may proceed, Cadet."

_Well_ , Jim thought, _that would explain why half the admiralty and any instructor who wasn’t currently teaching was sitting in the back of the lecture hall. Damn._

If Jim had known that today was going to be nothing but a souped up presentation for the admiralty and instructors, he definitely would have skipped. Glancing around at the other students present, Jim slouched a bit lower in his seat. The disappointment on his classmates’ faces was almost comical; it was as if they had pre-planned their collective sigh, it was so perfectly in unison.

The instructor shuffled his way to his seat on the side of the room, cane clacking loudly in the nearly silent hall as he went.

Considering he wouldn’t actually be learning anything today, Jim figured he may as well get a jump on completing his report on interplanetary customs and relations. Pulling his PADD out of his bag he laid it flat on his desk, opening to the program he had saved the night before of his rough draft. He would have been more than content to pass the entire class period that way--- but then he heard what the other cadet’s topic was.

"Thank you, professor. For my dissertation, I have chosen the widely debated Kelvin Disaster of Stardate 2233.04.”

Now _that_ got his attention. His head lifted so fast he swore he heard his neck crack. Slowly, cautiously, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to himself-- _and who was he kidding, every eye in the room was on him_ \-- he placed his hands lightly on the edge of his seat and pushed himself up straight, breath catching in his throat, as he waited to hear what the cadet had to say.

“After extensive research, I have come to the conclusion that had Acting Captain George Kirk made a few minor changes, the crew, including himself, could have survived the infamous Kelvin destruction. As you can see in the following calculations---”

Jim didn't hear much after that beyond the sound of his own heart frantically beating in his ears.

* * *

 

Len had yet to discover what it was about Jim Kirk that drew people to him like a magnet-- but he sure as hell understood why no one stuck around for all too long.

The kid was belligerent and damaged beyond all belief, smart as a whip and just as fast with cutting remarks and insults when he felt threatened or cornered. Jim had more than his fair share of baggage, and though Len had yet to be granted access to the more sordid details of the kid’s past, he knew enough from watching him to tell him his coping methods were questionable at best.

At the moment, he was falling down drunk.

Again.

And it fell to Len to wrangle him back to his dorm and make sure the idiot didn’t get into too much trouble.

Again.

_Goddamnit_.

Jim stumbled again, foot catching on a raised section of pavement and would have slammed face first into the concrete had Len not had an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, half dragging half carrying Jim’s staggering weight towards the housing buildings. “Christ, kid,” he grumbled, hoisting Jim’s arm higher over his own shoulders with a grunt of exertion. “Couldn’t have taken a rain check on those last couple, huh?”

Jim chuckled lowly as he was jostled, head lolling dangerously as he slumped, focusing intensely on regaining his footing. “Sorry, B’nes,” he slurred. “Jus’ had a bad day.”

Len had figured. The kid had darkened his doorway shortly after his arrival home from his shift at Starfleet Medical, persistent in his efforts to get Len to go out for drinks. Len had finally agreed, grumbling all the while, but Jim had been unusually quiet.

Until he damn near tried to drown himself in whiskey.

Jim Kirk was not by nature an overly talkative person. Typically, he was happy to make small talk or, if he was feeling particularly annoying, let loose the full range of his wit until the other conversee was ready to wring his neck, but on the whole silence didn’t seem to bother him; he knew when to keep his mouth shut, or when words weren’t called for, and Len had grown used to companionable silences with the younger man. Tonight, however, Len had barely been able to force three words at a time out of him. After the fourth or fifth attempt to get the kid to open up about whatever was eating him, he’d given up. Jim would talk when he was ready. In the meantime, he seemed to want to douse his worries in strong alcohol, and Len was happy to provide company-- and supervision-- as he did so. But Lord, he’d never seen Jim this drunk.

As they reached the dormitories, he made a split-second decision: he would not leave Jim alone-- not when he was this inebriated and upset.

Len steeled himself to wrestle Jim up to his own rooms to sleep it off. He held Jim’s wrist firmly in his hand, keeping the blond’s arm slung around his neck as he awkwardly maneuvered his other hand into his pocket for his key card, pressing it to the panel beside the entryway and shouldering open the door. As he sidled through the door, trying to hold it open with his foot and simultaneously get both himself and Jim inside, Jim’s foot caught on the corner of the frame and he stumbled.

Scrambling to maintain his hold on him as he fell, threatening to drag them both to the floor, Len squawked out, “Woah there, Jimmy boy!”

He was not at all prepared for Jim to violently wrench his arm from his grip, pitching forward and only just catching himself on his hands before his face met the tile, growling, “Get the fuck _off_ of me.”

Blinking in surprise, at the vehemence of Jim’s tone, Len paused a moment before rolling his eyes, reaching to help Jim to his feet with a grumbled, “Oh for-- c’mon.”

Again, Jim shook him off, stumbling backwards until he hit the stairs as he slurred out, “Don’t touch me.”

Rapidly losing patience, Len stalked forward, ready to haul Jim up the stairs and into bed and put an end to this ridiculous behavior when Jim said, something vulnerable in his tone, “Don’t call me-- don’t call me Jimmy.”

Confused, but desperate to get Jim inside and calmed down from-- whatever this was, Len held his hands out slowly for Jim to take, crouching down beside the younger man in the stairwell. “Ok,” he said, placating. “Ok, I won’t. But lemme help you up, alright?”

Jim eyed him questioningly for a few moments, before apparently deciding that Len could be trusted after all and reaching out to grasp clumsily at his forearms as he hoisted himself to his feet. “I’m not--” Jim began, changing tactics mid sentence and settling for saying insistently, “It’s Jim. Not Jimmy.”

Len helped him find his balance for a moment, bracing one arm against his bicep and the other still clutching at Jim’s wrist.

_Pulse too damn high._

“Gotcha, kid. No worries. Y’alright?”

“Yeah-- ‘m good,” Jim replied quietly, before drunkenly ambling onward. Releasing his hold on Len as he took a few halting steps up the stairs, he asked, “Where are we? W’at your place?”

“Yup,” Len answered, hovering behind Jim as he made his way higher, just in case. “Gonna sleep off the gallon of whiskey you drank and then we’re gonna have a little chat in the morning.”

Jim paused, turning shakily on his heel to stare at him. “What’d I do now?”

Len laughed, glad for a break in the tension of the last several moments. “For once,” he said, motioning Jim onward, “you didn’t do anything. Don’t worry about it. Bed. Get going.” Despite his orneriness of mere moments ago, Jim obeyed without a word.

It didn’t do a damn thing for Len’s nerves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always my eternal thanks to raisinsforsunday for their continued patience and assistance with editing and suggestions.

Jim awoke with a pounding headache and a groan, muffled by his pillow as he buried his head. The sunlight streaming in through the thin window shades seemed determined to hit him directly in the eyes, which was definitely not conducive to his current state.

His window wasn’t at an angle like that. And his pillows didn’t smell like this-- he didn’t use whatever detergent it was clinging to the fabric beneath his nose.

This wasn’t his room.

_Shit._

Taking a moment, he listened carefully for any sounds of life to see if he could figure out where the hell he was. Nothing but the incessant pounding of his head.

Jesus, he hadn’t been this hungover in years.

Bracing himself for the uncomfortable task of raising his head, he breathed deeply through his nose, fighting back the slight nausea accompanying the crescendo of drums in his brain. Pushing himself more or less upright, he risked a cautious glance around.

It was definitely a dorm building; he recognized the standard Starfleet Academy issue furnishings and the cadet red of a sleeve poking out of the hamper in the corner. So he was in somebody’s room on campus. Ok, that was a start at least.

His jacket from the night before lay in a crumpled heap next to the bed.

The telltale sounds of another person awakening caught his ear and he sat rigid and still on the edge of the bed as he listened to _swish_ of a door, the rushing sound of running water, the dull thud of ungraceful footsteps in the hallway. He waited for them to pass the door of the room he was in, but instead heard the quiet yet sharp _rap rap rap_ of knuckles against the frame. No such luck.

He held his breath as he held his silence; he had no idea who’s rooms he was in, how he’d gotten there, or what he’d done last night. He remembered going to Bones, begging him to come out for drinks with him after a shitty, shitty day--

“Jim?”

 _Oh._ If Bones was here…

He’d been in Bones’ dorm before, loads of times, but never his room. And if he was in  
Bones’ room…

Jim dragged his hands down his face in frustration. Bones _had_ come out drinking with him, and had probably hauled his ass home in the early hours of the morning. God, he’d probably made an ass of himself if he couldn’t even remember taking the guy’s _bed_.

_Nicely done, Kirk. Your jackassery truly knows no bounds._

Suddenly remembering that Bones was probably waiting on a response, he rose unsteadily to his feet, hands on his hips as he closed his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning.

“Yeah, Bones, c’mon in.” The door opened softly and Jim waved a hand at his surroundings uncomfortably as his friend entered the room. “Hey, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take your bed-- you totally could have--”

Bones waved him off, shoving a hot cup of dark, steaming coffee into his hands. “Don’t worry about it. Wouldn’t have put you there if I was gonna take offense.”

“Still,” he murmured around the rim of the mug as he sipped at the piping hot drink.

Bones clutched his own mug loosely as he perched on the edge of the bed, Jim turning to face him. “So…” he drawled, dragging out the word, “how d’you feel?” He couldn’t keep a straight face, lips quirking upward a the edges.

Jim fixed him with a halfhearted glare. “Har de har,” he quipped, wincing at the ache in his head and bringing a hand to rub at his temples, shielding his eyes from the morning light infiltrating the room.

Bones laughed lightly, setting his cup on the nightstand. “That good, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Jim replied, not moving his hand. “I’m just peachy.” Waving in Bones’ direction, he continued, “Why are you so… not hungover?”

Bones barked a laugh, grimacing apologetically when Jim winced at the sound. “I didn’t drink half as much as you did, kid. And nothing half as strong, either. What had you so worked up last night?”

Jim paused, just a moment too long to be natural. “Just-- had a rough day, that’s all,” he mumbled, aiming for nonchalance and falling miserably short if the skeptical quirk of Bones’ eyebrow was anything to go by. “The uh--” he cleared his throat, “the dissertation that was presented yesterday? In my strategies class?” Taking a deep breath, he forced out, “The jackass picked the _Kelvin_ for his subject--” he trailed off.

Bones let the silence linger a moment before prompting, “And?”

“And spent the entire class period ripping into my dad and  all the numerous ways he fucked up.”

Bones inhaled slowly, his breath loud in the silence that followed as Jim lowered his eyes to the floor, running a fingertip along the edge of the mug idly.

“Shit, kid,” Bones breathed, “you ok?”

Jim shrugged as he let out a half laugh. “I’m fine,” he said, feeling anything but. “Just… didn’t realize how easily he gave up, s’all.”

* * *

Len had been expecting the conversation to take a melancholy turn as soon as the word “Kelvin” left Jim’s mouth, but he hadn’t expected the look of bitter anger that crossed the younger man’s face as he spoke.

“Jim,” he began, the barest hint of a reprimand lacing his tone, “you know your pop didn’t _give up_ ,” he emphasized the words sarcastically to be sure Jim heard how ridiculous he sounded. “He saved hundreds of lives-- he saved your life, your mom’s. He did the best he could with difficult-- I’d say damn near _impossible--_ circumstances.”

“Did he?” Jim fired back, finally meeting his eye through the thin haze of steam from his coffee. Something about this had hit Jim hard, and he was pissed. “‘Cause according to Cadet What’s-his-Face, there were about 33 different things he could have done that maybe wouldn’t have ended up with him blown to bits light years away and with me--” he cut himself off hastily, inhaling sharply through his nose before raising his mug to his lips. “Never mind, sorry. Just-- forget about it.”

“Kid--”

“I’m fine, Bones, just… hungover and grumpy,” Jim insisted, adding on a more sincere sounding: “sorry.”

Len shrugged off the apology, sipping loudly at his own cup. “No worries. Trust me, compared to the last time I saw you hungover, you’re being downright chipper.”

Jim snorted. “That was a hell of a night-- and what did you expect after waking up under a bench?”

Len smirked, tacking on: “I was on the same bench, if you recall.”

“Yeah, _on_ it!” Jim countered with a laugh. “I know you’re practically ancient and all, but you couldn’t have maneuvered me, I don’t know _next_ to the bench instead of under it?”

“ _Ancient?"_

“With your feet hanging down in my face?”

“You’re right,” Len groused sarcastically, “next time I’ll just leave you at the bar and we’ll see what happens. In my elderly state I wouldn't want to risk throwing out my back lugging your ungrateful ass around.”

Jim chucked softly as he set his cup on the corner of the desk, leaning a shoulder back against the wall and folding his arms over his chest. After a moment of silence, his melancholy mood returned, if a little lessened, and he tilted his head back against the plaster.

“You really gonna be alright, kid?” Len asked softly.

Jim pursed his lips and nodded his head.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine… just-- gotta accept that fact that--”

Whatever Jim had been about to say was cut off by the chirp of his communicator from his jacket pocket. He stepped forward, picking up his jacket and draping it over the desk chair with one hand as he fished the communicator free with the other.

He glanced at it momentarily before tucking it into his pants pocket unanswered.

Len quirked a brow at him. “Not gonna get that?”

Jim shrugged. “Don’t recognize the signal.”

“Fair enough. You were saying?” Len pressed, but Jim had already put his walls back up.

“Nothing important,” he said evasively, quickly changing the subject as he flopped down on the bed next to Len, aiming for levity. “So, what are your plans for today?”

Len refrained from sighing at his friend’s avoidance of things that upset him before answering, “Just gonna get some coursework done. You?”

“Same. Got a paper to do for my xenobiology lab.”

“Want help with that?”

“If you’re offering, sure. I’m having a hell of a time with the--”

_Chirp. Chirp._

Len smirked as Jim cursed under his breath in annoyance. “You’d best answer that. They seem persistent.”

Jim moved to do so with a roll of his eyes, lifting his hips and reaching underneath himself to get to his back pocket. Len gestured towards the door.

“D’you want me to--?”

“Nah, you’re good,” Jim replied, indicating for Len to stay where he was. Flipping open the communicator with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, Jim answered the call with a quiet, “Kirk here”

“ _Bout damn time_.”

Len was instantly curious about the gruff voice on the line, not recognizing it as anyone from the academy and knowing Jim didn’t have many contacts outside the few friends he’d made since arriving in San Francisco. Jim had said himself he didn’t recognize the signal. He waited with interest to hear what Jim had to say, and to find out who was calling him repeatedly on a Saturday morning.

Next to him, Jim blanched an alarming shade of white and shot up, stumbling out of the room. It was high time the hangover got the better of him, Len thought, as he retrieved the communicator Jim had sent tumbling to the floor in his haste to get to the bathroom, suppressing horrid retching noises until the door slid shut behind him.

Picking up the communicator from its place face down in the carpet, he prepared to introduce himself and explain the circumstances, let whoever this was know that Jim would have to call them back as he was currently indisposed.

It was then he heard the faint, tinny sound of the voice on the line: “ _You there, Jimmy boy_?”

Suddenly, remembering Jim’s reaction to the nickname the night before, his harsh and defensive words--

_Get the fuck off me_

\-- Len wasn’t sure he wanted to know who this was.

As the sounds of Jim’s heaving continued, chorused by the repeated inquiries of, “ _Jim? Jimmy_?” Len wondered if it really was the hangover getting to Jim after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Years down the line, Len would know the name 'Frank’ and fully understand what it meant to Jim. He'd know what the man had done to his friend in his youth and why Jim reacted so violently to a sudden reappearance of the man in his life in any form. But that morning, holding the communicator in one hand, coffee in the other, and hearing Jim puke up a lung from the mere sound of his voice, he was at a loss.

“Uh,” he began awkwardly. “Jim’s-- indisposed at the moment, is there a message I can pass along?” 

There was static silence on the other end for a long moment before a reply came. “ _ Who the hell is this? _ ” 

Taken aback by the unprompted rudeness of the response, Len replied with an equally impolite tone, “Leonard McCoy, who the hell is this?” 

“ _ This is--”  _

At that moment a pale, slightly shaky hand snaked around and plucked the communicator from his grasp. 

“What do you want?” Jim rasped into it, hoarse from vomiting and skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. 

“ _ That ain’t no way to talk to family, boy.”  _

That took Len by surprise; to the best of his knowledge, Jim’s only family to speak of was comprised of his mother-- who was holed up on a ‘fleet vessel deep in the bowels of space god knows where-- and a brother he hadn’t heard from in well over ten years. 

But this man sounded much older than Jim’s brother would be, and surely Jim would be at least a little excited to hear from his sibling; he’d been trying to track him down on and off for years. 

“What do you want?” Jim repeated in the same tone, pausing slightly between each word to emphasize his annoyance at repeating himself. 

“ _ Your mom is comin’ dirtside for a three month leave while they do-- something or other to her ship. She wanted me to tell you.”  _

Len smiled encouragingly at Jim, knowing the kid probably hadn’t seen his mom in ages.

“That’s great,” Jim replied flatly. “She knows where to find me.” 

“ _ She was hopin’ you’d come here--” _

Here? Here--  _ Iowa _ , here? It stood to reason that Winona Kirk would head back to the family home while on leave. But if this man was calling from Iowa then-- _   
_

Losing his patience, Jim cut him off with a scoff, anger and weary resignation lacing his tone. “How did you even get my contact information?” 

“ _ Took some doing, Jimmy boy, let me tell you. You sure don’t make it easy to find you.”  _

Jim grit his teeth, a muscle in his jaw clenching harshly as he closed his eyes. “You ever consider the fact that maybe I didn’t want to be found?” 

“ _ Jim--”  _ he replied, the hint of a reprimand sneaking through with a touch of something darker underneath. 

Len’s stomach gave a jolt as he put the pieces together. 

“Don’t call me again,” Jim said quietly, “I mean it, Frank. Just-- leave me alone.” 

“ _ Jimmy--” _

In a single sudden movement, Jim grasped the communicator firmly with both hands and, twisting his wrists, wrenched it apart. The broken halves sparked momentarily as the wires snapped, the call fading to a brief but awful screech of static. 

He stood for a moment, staring at the wrecked pieces of the device, before lifting his head. With a strangled smile he said softly, struggling for levity, “So… breakfast? My treat.” 

Before Len could respond, Jim had grabbed his jacket and his shoes and left the room. As Len sat on the bed, pondering the correct response, he heard Jim call from the entry, “Meet me at my place in half an hour?” 

 The soft sound of the door closing followed before Len  had even formulated a reply. 

 

* * *

 

Jim paused just outside Bones’ door and leaned heavily back against it, dragging his hands down his face as he fought down the rising feelings of panic in his chest. 

He tried to talk himself down, reminding himself over and over again that where he was wasn’t exactly a secret-- George and Winona Kirk’s son enrolls with the ‘fleet? That had been all over campus in hours and people talk-- and that Frank couldn’t do anything to him, anyway. Not now. 

But still…

Just hearing the man’s voice set him on edge, made him want to run until he couldn’t breathe just for the sake of getting away, or pick a fight with the nearest breathing thing that would swing back just prove to himself that he wasn’t helpless anymore. 

It had been  _ years _ since he’d heard that voice. 

He’d been doing so well. Well, if one considered pushing every skeleton of his past so deep into the closet he’d need to an an expansion to fit it all to be doing well, that is. 

Shit. 

Tugging his hair with a groan, he forced himself to get moving; he had just under thirty minutes to make it back to his place, shower, get himself together and convince Bones that he was ok. 

Hopefully, that would be enough. 

With a deep breath, he pushed himself forward, and made his way home. 

His roommate was out-- thank goodness, they barely spoke as it was, no need for him to see Jim losing it over a stupid comm call-- so he didn’t meet any resistance as he took over the bathroom and locked the door behind him. 

Climbing into the shower, he let the hot water pour down, closing his eyes against the spray and taking deep breaths as he tried to stop the trembling in his hands. This was stupid. He wasn’t a child anymore. He had his own life, he could make his own choices. Hell, he could press charges against Frank if he wanted to for all the shit he pulled. He could get a restraining order. He could--

Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to do a damn thing. 

He had been fooling himself, thinking this wasn’t going to come up eventually. He was planting roots for the first time in his life, committing himself to something for more than a few weeks at a time, and with that came the inevitable human connection that led to people-- well, at least one person-- knowing just enough about him to know that something had happened to make him overreacting to a simple call the way he had. 

He wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this one. Bones knew him too well, there’s no way he was going to pass for remotely ok. Not right now. 

He was going to have to tell him. 

Shit. 

Hopefully he stuck around after. Hopefully the awkwardness didn't kill them both. 

Climbing out of the shower, he dried himself off quickly and dressed himself, his still damp hair dripping onto his collar. He’d only just finished pulling on his shoes when the knock came announcing Bones’ arrival. 

Showtime.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Len waited for Jim to open the door, hands shoved deep into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels as he pursed his lips in thought. 

By Jim’s sudden departure from his place, he could only imagine that the younger man had worked himself into a rather impressive fit, but he wasn’t entirely certain what would be waiting for him behind the door when the blond appeared. Would Jim be angry? Nervous? Cocky and evasive? 

And what was the best way to respond to this? Should he let the kid front and hide and deal with this alone until he was ready to talk about it? Would he ever want to talk about it? 

Thankfully, he wasn’t left alone with his thoughts for too long as the door slid open to reveal Jim, hair flat against his forehead and still drying and making him look younger than he was. 

“Hey,” Len greeted, giving his friend a once over in concern. “You sure you want to go out--” 

“Yeah,” Jim replied, waving him off as he stepped into the hallway and slung his jacket over his shoulders. “I’m good. Just wanna get out of here for a bit.” 

As Jim began making his way down the hallway, Len scrambled to catch up, noting the too tense line of Jim’s shoulders as he walked, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. 

“Jim--”

“Look,” Jim cut him off as he pressed the button for the lift. “I’ll explain everything, ok, just-- I just need a few minutes to--” he trailed off as the lift pinged it’s arrival, and Len nodded. 

“Sure, kid. Whatever you say.”   


Len did his best to keep his worry to a minimum against the dark suspicions forming in his mind. He was almost positive he knew what Jim was going to tell him, but he wanted to leave that power in Jim’s hands. Jim would tell him what he wanted him to know, and he’d tell him when he was good and ready. Len wasn’t going to push him on that; not today. 

They wandered in companionable silence down the road away from campus to a small diner they frequented on mornings off. They made a cheap but killer breakfast platter that both were fond of, and some of the best drip coffee around; they had real coffee grounds to brew on hand at all times instead of replicator sludge. 

Seating themselves near a window, a server who had waited on them more than a few times waved in greeting and brought over two cups without waiting for them to ask, hot and dark and smelling heavenly. 

Len nodded his thanks as Jim flashed a grateful-- if half hearted-- smile to the waitress, and began adding sugar to his own mug as Jim ran a finger up and down the handle of his own. 

After a long silence, Jim spoke. 

“My stepdad,” he muttered, his eyes on the steam rising from his coffee. “Frank is my stepdad.” 

Len didn’t reply, but he nodded in understanding. He knew Jim’s father had passed on the day of his birth-- who didn’t, honestly?-- and it stood to reason that his mom would have remarried at some point along the line. 

After another long silence, as he took him Jim’s slumped shoulders and anxious fidgeting with his untouched drink, he said, “He sounds like an ass.” 

Jim snorted a laugh against his will, looking surprised. “That’s-- putting it mildly.”

Len nodded again, pointedly looking out the window and sipping at his coffee-- just a touch too sweet-- to give Jim some semblance of space. 

He was rewarded when Jim spoke again. 

“He-- uh,” Jim stammered, clearing his throat. “He’s not a nice guy. At least--” he trailed off with a shrug, all of his usual bravado gone. 

_ At least, not to me _ . 

Len had been a doctor long enough to read between the lines of such statements, even if he hadn’t been hearing them from the closest thing he’d had to a friend in years. Even if he hadn’t seen Jim’s visceral reaction to hearing the man’s voice, separated by several years and thousands of miles and still rendered an exhausted anxious kid. 

Jim glanced at him nervously, and Len met his eye with a nod to show he understood. Jim’s gaze darted to the tabletop as his cheeks and ears colored with shame and he dragged his mug closer to himself for warmth. 

“He called me--” Jim closed his eyes and exhaled sharply as he corrected himself, “ _ calls  _ me…” 

“Jimmy,” Len whispered, a statement of fact rather than a question. 

Jim scoffed lightly, his disgust for the name evident. “Yeah.” 

“Ok,” Len said. Jim’s posture didn’t change. He sat, avoiding eye contact, hunched over himself and looking upset. Feeling the need to apologize, he continued, “I’m sorry I said it, last night.” 

Jim shrugged. “You didn’t know.” 

“Still,” Len insisted. “It upset you and I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” 

Jim met his eye and offered a small smile, bringing his cup to his lips and taking the first sip of his coffee. 

After another long silence, Len spoke again. 

“Are there any other things you don’t like to be called?” 

Jim rolled his eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “Usually I couldn’t care less, just-- wasn’t expecting--” he broke off with a sigh. Then, possibly the most vulnerable Len had seen the kid, “It’s been a shitty couple of days, man.” 

Len had about a million different questions rolling through his mind. When did it start? How bad did it get? When’s the last time you saw him? Does your mom know? Where any charges pressed? How did he track you down? Has he harassed you before? Do you want to report this? Are you ok? 

But he knew looking at Jim that what the kid wanted was for normalcy. He wanted to forget that this had ever happened and not knowing what Len’s reaction was going to be was killing him. An embarrassing facet of his past had been revealed and he was uncertain how to move forward. Jim didn’t need a doctor, he needed a friend. 

Luckily, Len could be both. 

Flagging down the waitress, he said, “Where I’m from, the cure for a shitty week is a good meal and some good company. We’ll order and have the first, but I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me for the second.” 

As she approached to take their order, Jim smirked, the closest to a real smile he’d been since getting the call earlier. “I’ll take it,” he replied teasingly. “You put up with my sorry ass, I guess I can put up with yours.” 

“God help us both,” Len said with a glance to the heavens. 

Jim laughed. 

 

* * *

Years later, when Jim was declared captain of the  _ Enterprise, _ Starfleet hosted a grandiose celebration, mostly for the sake of PR and to parade around their new golden child and the hero of the federation. Jim was surprised that his mom showed up at the official ceremony, but for the reception she brought along with her a middle aged fella with two to three inches on Jim and a bit of a gut to match. 

As Jim spotted her companion, his step faltered. Len was at his side in an instant. Jim carried on like nothing had happened, all poise and confidence, but Len could see the brittle quality of his smile as he exchanged pleasantries with the two. 

Of course, as his mother’s husband began, “Look at you, Jimmy boy--” no one but Jim saw as McCoy suddenly tripped, spilling his drink all down the front of the man’s wrinkled white shirt, prompting the two to leave the festivities earlier than expected. 

And no one but Len heard Jim’s quiet but sincere, “Thank you, Bones,” as they headed the opposite direction. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos and comment if you enjoyed!


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